I have been recovering really well from what was confirmed as Dengue fever - in fact would think I was back to whatever passes as normal - and have been meaning to post something to tell anyone who might have been following these musings that I am safely home. When time, which was behaving itself quite nicely, suddenly does a jump and I realise that I have been home for 6 weeks, (and somewhere along the line gained a year in age).
The journey out of Haiti was accomplished using the luxury of a coach belonging to the Carib Line - a company based in the Dominican Republic and connecting many of the major towns and cities over the island. And when I remember the taxis and tap-taps and motor-bikes seen on the roads on and around Cap-Haitien this is really luxurious - with air-conditioning (so effective that blankets are provided) and a means of constantly adjusting the tyre pressures to maintain a balanced (and presumably safer) driving experience.
(Quite how the mechanics of the system work is beyond me but I have attached a picture to try and explain it.)
The coach line operates daily, with the incoming service arriving in Cap Haitien late in the afternoon. The coach is locked away in a compound over night, and departing passengers are invited to assemble at 8.00am. Tickets are checked, baggage is tagged and loaded, and we are invited to board. The coach is designed to hold over 50 passengers, but it seems like we are less than 20. All of us, if we want it, can get a window seat, and on some signal (which wasn't able to discern) the coach leaves, and so I begin my journey back to the UK.The coach had comfortable seats, the potential for playing DVDs, an on-board toilet, and a hostess to help negotiate the border crossings.
We arrived at the border in good time - about an hour driving, and parked on a field
of mud (currently dry). We were immediately surrounded by hawkers and beggars offering us drinks, sweets or shoe-cleaning. After walking to the passport-control and having our documents scrutinised, copied, stamped and returned we walked back to the coach and waited for about 30 minutes.
The border crossing is a single track road-bridge crossing a fast flowing river. The river can be crossed directly by the more intrepid, and as no-one seems to notice or intervene, and that includes the border guards from both countries and the United Nations Observers, it is an option to consider for the traveller lacking travel papers. The river is also used for laundry and bathing, though given the colour of the water it is hard to imagine a whiter-than-white finish.
There seems to be no signal, but lorries are crossing either direction but with no clear pattern or priority. But obviously at our turn, the coach started and we crossed from Haiti to the Dominican Republic... only to drive into a yard and be "invited" into a customs shed - with all our luggage. As we parked we were surrounded by many, many children and young adults desperate to carry our luggage (clearly expecting a fee) and it took a fair bit of doing to insist on carrying our own.
(Though I was surprised how tired I still felt after the Dengue - on arriving at Robyn's just 6 weeks earlier I had carried my bag and another with a rucksack on my back up to the second story flat; on leaving it was all I could do to drag my own case down.)
We all had to take our luggage into a barn-like hall where the bags were opened and rummaged through. Quite what was being looked for was not apparent. There are times when wearing a clerical collar has advantages: as the man searching my cases looked at my collar and barely opened the bags, and muttered something like trusting the clergy! And also I found that my immigration forms had been filled in for me, and I was listed as "Religioso" on the occupation section.
On returning to the coach we were all given a big filled-roll and a soft drink and some water. As my appetite was yet to return, I followed the lead of some others and offered my roll to one of the children encircling the bus - it was quickly grabbed and taken away.
Again following some mysterious signal the coach left and we drove to Santiago.
The scenery remaining remarkably constant, while the condition of the housing and roads gradually improved as we came to the city.
The Spanish speaking Dominican Republic has a more "Latin" feel to it than its more French-feeling sister Haiti.
Most of the towns and villages we drove through had their own churches and police buildings; but also cock-fighting pits - though there did not seem to be any contests as we passed.
Having arrived in Santiago there was a few minutes delay before Ruben met us. (Ruben was our driver on arrival 6 weeks earlier, and was back in the Dom Rep to have his truck fixed.)
We were escorted to our hotel and it was a pleasure to enjoy a hot shower and an air-conditioned room.
The hotel staff were very good, and the facilities excellent.
After an early supper - and yes my appetite was returning - we turned in. Ross and Kim had an early start - their transport to the airport came at 5.00am and it was quite emotional to see them go.
I had a further 24 hours to wait, the time was taken waiting for Fiona to arrive, and then a brief sightseeing tour on foot before trying to sleep
After seeing Fiona and Ruben leave for the journey into Haiti, it was my turn to take the shuttle to the airport.
And after the formalities - again involving a rummage through the case, and then as I was one of the random stop and search candidates a more thorough searching of all my luggage it was time to go.
And after 4 hours on the plane, with a sleeping 2 year old and his mother as my row companions, it was really great to arrive in New York and meet Lorraine.
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